


but you're a good girl

by woodswit



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bartender!Jon, Dark Jon Snow, F/M, Jealousy, Journalist!Sansa, Morning After, Mutual Pining, Online Dating, Samsa if you squint, dark!jon vibes, jonsa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:35:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28457670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/woodswit/pseuds/woodswit
Summary: For nimfeach, who requested morning-after Jonsa with dark!Jon vibes."I've got it," Sam had told her over takeout curries one day, waving his fork. "Just meet them at my friend Jon's bar! He's a good man, he'll keep an eye out for you, and he's dead scary when he wants to be. The minute you start getting any strange vibes, just mention that you know him, and I guarantee you're safe," he'd said proudly.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 61
Kudos: 374





	but you're a good girl

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nimfeach](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nimfeach/gifts).



> This was written for nimfeach for my follower giveaway. It was intended to be 500 words, but as ever, I can't ever keep it brief with Jonsa. 
> 
> She requested morning-after Jonsa with dark!Jon vibes, and mentioned she loves plaid-wearing, ex-con mechanic Jon, so those are worked in as well.

**Present**

"The usual, right?”

Jon is already making Sansa's drink when she slides in between two barstools at the polished black bar. It's early in the evening, but The Wall is already crowded enough that she has to elbow past people to get to Jon.

"Yes, thank you," she calls over the music. He’s got his back to her, so she tears her gaze from how his shoulders look in his plaid shirt. He's busy, because he's always busy. Still, she wants his attention (approval?) so she finds herself talking more anyway, though she doesn't say what she really wants to say. "This one ought to be a good one," she adds, and Jon glances back at her as he deftly slices and twists a lemon wheel for her drink.

(Does he remember that she loves lemon because she told him, or because he's good at his job?)

(Why does it matter?)

"Oh yeah?" He uses his Bartender Voice.

Five months of knowing him, five months of Fridays, and she still can't tell what he thinks of her. Five months of Fridays and he still uses what she’s dubbed his Bartender Voice to talk to her at the beginning of each night, like he's constructing a fence anew between them each time; she can see him but she can't reach him.

"Yes, I matched with Samwell's younger brother. Such a funny coincidence!"

She hands him her card to open a tab, per their routine, as he slides her drink across the marble. In the dim light, his eyes look sooty and pretty, his mouth soft, his stubble velvety. No man has ever made her quite so aware of how _sensory_ longing can be.

"You don't mean Dickon?" He takes her card and their fingers brush. "Is that …fair?"

Jon's cool gaze on her outfit (gauzy, sheer top and twinkling earrings) feels accusatory. Sansa snatches up her drink and purse.

"Fair? Nothing's fair." This comes out more bratty than she intends, and Jon's brows arch like a comment on her brattiness. Maybe that's what moves her to say what she says next. "Besides, you never know. He might just be the one I actually fall in love with."

"Thought you said that wasn't a possibility for you," Jon points out, his voice even but still snide. Like he's making fun of her, like he thinks she's immature, or dramatic. For a moment the bar fades around them, and Sansa realizes he is revealing what he really thinks of her.

Five months of Fridays; five months she’s spent longing for him, and he’s spent all those Fridays thinking her a self-pitying fool, all for a throwaway comment she made the first night they met.

"Well it probably still isn't," she forces out, because she's good at keeping her composure, "but if there _is_ anyone who could make me fall, it would be Dickon." She casts around for some reasoning for this as he recoils, like she’s slapped him, and she wonders what that's about. "He's sweet, he's educated, he's got a stable job, my parents would adore him..."

For some reason a muscle leaps in Jon's jaw.

"Best of luck, then,” he says, then nods and raises his hand to a customer beside her. "What are you drinking?"

It’s a dismissal. Cheeks burning, Sansa takes her drink and scans the bar for the most romantic table possible.

**Past**

It started as an assignment for work—Sansa works for an online news outlet targeted at millennial women. Some might call her job frivolous, but Sansa has always taken assignments seriously. She's always worked for the gold star, the pat on the head. So when her boss, Margaery, playfully suggested that Sansa explore the 'dating app scene' for a story, Sansa had launched herself into it with her usual obsessive gusto.

She had gotten Myranda to approve her profile pictures, a calculated mix of social, active, and pretty shots. She had voraciously read articles on how to 'play the game', articles ranging from obvious and benign ( _How to Win at Bumble;_ and _The Real Reason He's Not Messaging Back_ ) to regressive and offensive ( _Are You Too Ugly to Date Online?_ ; or, _How to Be the Woman He'll Want to Marry_ ). She had played with the cadence of her replies, the number of emojis she used, the level of flirtatiousness, all the while judiciously logging the details of her experiment.

But when her matches had started pressing her for dates? She had panicked.

("What if they're axe murderers?!" she had demanded of Margaery.

"No one's an axe murderer anymore," Margaery had reassured her absently from her desk, taking a selfie and ruffling her hair. "They're much more likely to just be manipulative sociopaths these days, don't worry.")

Feeling unheard, Sansa had laid out her fears to her colleague and friend Sam, the site's food and restaurant critic, a round-faced man with a heart of gold and the physical grace of a duck, and one of her favorite people.

"I've got it," Sam had told her over takeout curries one day, waving his fork as he talked. "Just meet them at my friend Jon's bar! He's a good man, he'll keep an eye out for you, and he's dead scary when he wants to be. The minute you start getting any strange vibes, just mention that you know him, and I guarantee you're safe," he'd said proudly.

So when HarryHardon946 pressed her again for a meetup, Sansa was ready.

**_SansaSnark:_ ** _sure, how about this Friday night at The Wall? ;)_

**Present**

**_Dickon_** : _omw! cant wait to finally meet u :)_

Sansa stares at her mobile screen dismally. The bar is filling up around the corner table she's snagged. She is determined to appear to have a great time with Dickon—why? It doesn't matter; this is just for work—so she takes a long swig of her drink, then another, and covertly reapplies her lipstick. She sits up straight and twirls her hair around a finger, pretending in case Jon looks over that she's merely got first-date jitters.

But when she glances back at the bar, there’s a moment where Jon is looking at her, and she can’t read his expression. Doubtful? Angry? Disdainful?

…Betrayed?

Why is Dickon, the _only_ acceptable guy Sansa has arranged to meet, the _only_ guy that Jon seems unhappy about?

**Past**

The first time Sansa went to The Wall, she wasn't sure what to expect of the bar, or of this Jon. Sam collects odd people, and The Wall's located in a part of town that is up-and-coming—meaning it's not the greatest area. Wearing the sexy-first-date outfit she calculated per research (a leather jacket she borrowed from Mya; slinky satin camisole from Margaery; her own power heels) Sansa had arrived at the bar ten minutes early, on Sam's instructions, feeling a little self-conscious, a little silly, and mostly eager to go back home and do a face mask.

The Wall was undeniably cool: an older building, with exposed brick walls and large, arched windows and high ceilings; the perfect mix of elegant and rough-around-the-edges. Sam had told her all about Jon, who owned the bar: quiet and brooding, tattooed and a little snarky, but unexpectedly savvy in business; he had worked his way up from being a mechanic at a local auto shop, and bartending on the weekends, to finally buying the bar and becoming his own boss.

(In classic form for Sam, he had gotten a bit misty as he'd told her the whole story. _He can do anything,_ Sam had informed her, chin wobbling and eyes bright, _just like you, Sansa! When he gets going, he’s totally unstoppable. I’ve told him all about you, of course, how you always organize all the birthday parties here, and how you figured out that story about the Lannister family, you know, the one that got us so many hits last year! You’ll really get on with him, you’re so much alike!_ )

(Sam talks a lot. Often with tears in his eyes. It’s what she loves about him.)

The Wall was busy, and dimly-lit, and the music was grungy but also kind of elegant, like intellectual metal, and Sansa was just thinking she was utterly out of her depth when she had spotted Jon.

Rolled-up plaid sleeves, lean forearms marked with tattoos, dark curly hair pulled back at the nape of his neck carelessly. Intimidating on all levels. A pretty slash of a mouth and feral grey eyes. Her belly had clenched; he was as elegant and rough around the edges as his bar. Aloof, out of her league, and far too subtly cool for her. This brand of man was never interested in her. With her good-girl ponytail and early bedtime and obsessive work schedule, she was boring to men like him. Too straight-laced, too idealistic, too _basic_. He probably could see through her borrowed leather jacket and straight to her rosé-drinking, homework-doing heart. A bubble of resentment had formed.

Well, she wouldn't be interested in him anyway, either. This was just a favor. This was all just for work.

Their eyes had met briefly across the bar, over the sea of hipster heads. His pretty mouth had twitched with something like wry amusement, and she thought again of Sam informing her he’d told Jon _all about_ her.

He had waved, recognizing her instantly as his quarry for the night.

"Sansa, right?" Jon had called over the gritty Amy Winehouse cover, as he uncorked a Sauvignon Blanc for a group of black-turtlenecked women at the other end of the bar.

"That's me." She watched him deftly fill up a number of wineglasses with the white wine, his free hand turning on one of the sinks. "Did Samwell tell you about the whole assignment?"

She'd had to repeat herself, too polite to be loud enough the first time. Jon had had to lean across the bar, and she had found herself avoiding his eyes, withdrawing her hand after it accidentally brushed his arm. There was something too clever about those eyes, something too measuring. Something that made her feel naked.

(Later, over the course of so many Fridays, she would learn that there was little that Jon did not see; she would learn she had had the right of him in that moment, that he could see through whatever ruse she had put up, that he had the measure of every person who walked into his bar, just like she had the measure of each man she swiped right or left on. She would later learn, on boring dates when boring men explained the intricacies of bowling, or duck-hunting, or graffiti art to her, when she let her eyes wander the bar, looking for something intriguing or amusing, that her eyes would often land on just the same people that Jon's did. Later, they would catch each other people-watching, a silent callout.)

"Yeah, he told me all about it," Jon had shouted back, shaking a cocktail shaker. His grey eyes had lingered skeptically on her ponytail.

"Well, thanks for keeping an eye out for me,” she had called after an awkward pause, wherein Jon had poured someone else's martini into a glass.

"Sure." He'd glanced at her again. "What are you drinking?"

She'd considered just asking for a glass of wine, but had paused.

"Um, something that looks stronger than it is," she had fumbled. Jon had peered at her. "I know that's not a lot to go on. I don't really know my way around a liquor shelf," she'd added, embarrassed.

"Good girl, right," Jon had observed carelessly, dashing an olive into the martini glass. It hadn't been a compliment (or so she'd thought at the time) and she had felt another little bubble of resentment form. "What do you like? Flavors, I mean," he clarified when she'd looked confused.

"Anything with lemon, anything sweet."

His mouth had quirked again.

"Got it. Grab a table, I'll bring it over."

**Present**

**_Sansa_** : _you too :)_

She hits 'send' and refuses to look in Jon's direction. Something between them has permanently soured, she knows it, but she feels silly for thinking that, because things have _always_ been a little strained, a little awkward, with Jon. Even from the beginning, it has always felt off-beat, off-kilter, unsettled, and tense, like they are perpetually recovering from having offended each other.

Maybe he resents her presence, even though—she thinks furiously, taking a long swig of her drink—she is a paying, regular customer, plus she always tips really, really well. _Why_ should he resent her? It's not like he's had to actually step in on her dates in months, anyway. It was just the one time, that very first night.

(Since then, all she’s had to do is make it clear to each man that Jon knows her, that Jon’s keeping an eye out, and it _always_ extinguishes any bad behavior. One look at his frosty gaze and tattoos and they all clam up, back down, skulk off. And he seems more than happy to be caught watching them, as these dates try to size him up. Poser tattooed hipster, or gritty ex-con? Artsy harmless bartender, or Man with a Past? They never can tell.)

She finishes off her drink as she silently fumes, and then suddenly there is a man standing in front of her.

Oh, it's Jon. She cranes her neck to look up at him. For some reason, he looks irritable.

"Another round?" He makes a show of checking his watch.

"Yes, please," she says defiantly, as Jon picks up her glass. "He's on his way," she adds, just in case he thinks she's been stood up. Jon takes her glass, turns to go, then turns back to her suddenly.

"Does Sam know you matched with his little brother?"

"Yes, of course he does," she scoffs. "I'm not a monster, contrary to what you apparently think."

"I never said—" he halts, then shakes his head, rolling his eyes. "Whatever.”

They’re each quiet, embarrassed at their respective outbursts. Sansa rarely speaks her mind these days, and there’s a certain adrenaline thrumming below her skin now as she and Jon regard each other breathlessly. His usually pale cheeks are slightly flushed, his lean shoulders rising and falling, and she realizes her palms are clammy. But her tongue is loosened, maybe by the alcohol, maybe by the five months of Fridays, and she finds herself speaking her mind anyway.

“You obviously have Thoughts on this date,” she ventures, watches the muscles in Jon’s throat work as he swallows.

“Sam’s my best friend. His little brother matters to me,” he finally admits. “You’d feel the same way, if the situation were reversed.”

“Well, Sam’s a good friend of mine, too. And don’t act like you know me or know how I’d—“

Jon lets out a caustic laugh, looking incredulous.

“Know you? I’ve only been hearing about you for _years_ ; at this point I know you as well as Sam does. Besides, I’ve been watching you for five months now. Of course I know you—“

He halts abruptly again, like he’s gone too far. And her pathetic heart is pounding because it almost sounds like—it almost sounds like—

**Past**

HarryHardon946, her first date, had arrived late that night, and had been even more horrible than he'd seemed online—the proverbial fuck boy, tacky in his cheap blazer and distressed denim. He had just been telling her that she was approaching her 'sell-by date' (she had politely declined to go home with him and he was _not_ taking it well) when Jon had stopped at their table.

"We're closed. You need to go home," he had announced gracelessly, his eyes flinty.

(This had been a hilariously bald-faced lie, as the night was still in full swing around them.)

“You’re not making anyone else leave. Why should _I_ go home?" Harry had asked archly, cocking his head to look at Jon after looking demonstratively around the busy bar. Jon had pushed up his sleeves, mirroring Harry's cocked expression.

"Go. Home."

Harry's eyes had lingered on Jon's forearms, lean with muscle, covered with ominous tattoos, apparently reconsidering his arch words. "It's last call. You need to get out."

Harry had slunk out the bar in an anti-climactic sort of way, shooting venomous looks at Jon, leaving Sansa and Jon together. She had had a fleeting image of her sitting at the bar while Jon closed up, drinking wine and pouring her heart out to him; they might have a Moment, a Connection, and...

(Perhaps she'd watched too many chick flicks.)

Instead, Jon had brusquely offered her a ride home, rather than letting her Uber so late. In the terse ride back to her apartment, with the heat on and the city lights blurring around them, they had barely spoken, except for Jon to say that she needed to find better swiping criteria, and that she obviously should not have even allowed Harry to sit at the table with her.

"It's for _work_ ," she had countered. "I didn't actually want to _date_ him."

He had parked in front of her apartment building. It had been Christmastime and her block, mostly residential—brick buildings and rubbish bins; cheesy twinkle lights and fake trees blurred through fogged glass—had felt distinctly uncool after The Wall.

“So what happens if you meet someone you do want to date?" he had asked, after a long silence in which she had uncomfortably wondered if he was just waiting for her to get out of the car. She had laughed before having time to consider her answer, and Jon had looked at her sharply.

"Oh, that." She had avoided his eyes. "That's really not a problem here, trust me. I mean it's not even a possibility for me at this point, I think."

He wasn't saying anything, so she rushed to fill the silence. "It's not anything _bad_ , or anything. I just—I haven't had a crush on someone since I was a teenager, to be honest. I think I must have had so many crushes back then that I used them all up. I never meet anyone I’m attracted to anymore. I’ve just come to the realization that that whole… part of life… is just probably not for me.”

(She did not admit, in that moment, that she sometimes wondered if she had developed unrealistic expectations; she did not admit that she was still holding out for the Prince Charming all the fairy tales had once promised her and that she was starting to wonder if it all had been a lie.)

She had sensed that she was veering into self-pitying territory. "Anyway! Thanks for everything. You didn't have to give me a ride, but I really appreciate it."

"Yeah, sure," Jon had muttered, looking away, and she had awkwardly climbed out of his car.

( _What does Jon like?_ she had texted Sam later that night.)

( _Dogs and history! Oh and books, especially epic tales—classics, like Prince Aemon the Dragonknight,_ Sam had replied immediately. _Why do you ask?_ )

( _Just wondering,_ she had replied. She had tried not to spend too much time thinking about a man who had worked his way to success and who liked to read epic tales, and how much that sounded to her like a Prince Charming in disguise.)

(The next Friday, she had given Jon a bottle opener, hand-carved and painted to be an ancient direwolf, like in the old stories. She'd spent hours scouring the internet for the perfect thing to give him, the perfect way to say thank you for all of the things he had done. He had taken it, muttered _thanks_ , then bit his lip, and she had not seen it after that.)

**Present**

“You said yourself that you’re not open to relationships—“ Jon begins, trying to recover, but at that moment, she hears someone calling her name.

She and Jon both turn—a tall, broad man who is handsome in a department store ad sort of way is standing there, looking breathless and hopeful. He has Sam’s warm brown eyes, but his jaw is square and his waist is lean.

“Jon, hey!” he greets, looking between them a bit anxiously, and Sansa realizes there must be significant tension in the air, but she’s too flustered to smooth things over with her usual composure. “Sansa and I are—“

“—I know,” Jon cuts in sharply, taking Dickon aback. He holds up Sansa’s empty glass. “What are you drinking?”

Dickon uncomfortably names a basic lager, found everywhere, and Jon leaves with a brisk nod. Sansa is still reeling; she numbly gets to her feet.

(Did it almost sound like Jon was implying—did it almost sound like—)

“So! We finally meet!” She makes a pathetic stab at normalcy, and Dickon offers a shy smile. They do the awkward should-we-shake-hands-or-hug move that ends in a stiff, shallow embrace. Dickon smells like Dior Sauvage and toothpaste and detergent, he smells like a cookie-cutter leading man, and when she pulls back, she cannot find a single thing that is objectionable about him. Unlike all of the dates she’s had so far for this assignment, Dickon is a perfectly reasonable choice, and…

…And there is no reason for Jon to keep watch over them. And Sansa realizes, as Dickon shrugs off his jacket and sits down across from her, that her strategy throughout this whole assignment, ever since that first Friday, has been to choose men that _are_ objectionable; she has been choosing men in the hopes that one will be so objectionable that Jon will have to finally comment on it again.

(Sort of like he has tonight...?)

This assignment has not been about work in a very, very long time. Five months of Fridays, to be exact.

She is an idiot.

“Sam’s told me all about you,” Dickon is saying nervously. “I mean, he told me about why you were on Bumble in the first place, too, ha, hope you’re not planning to write about me.”

“No, Sam’s a good friend. I wouldn’t do that,” she admits, and a long pause falls between them. It isn’t one of the loaded pauses she always has with Jon, either. It is empty, it is as painless and basic and mild as a glass of inexpensive rosé. They smile uncomfortably at each other.

“Um, so I sort of overheard you and Jon talking just now,” Dickon starts, “and—I mean—if I’m just—“

She can tell that to bring this up has cost Dickon a lot; he looks mortified, and she sees so much of Sam in him in this moment, this awkward fumbling courage, that her heart aches, and then caves.

She tells him everything.

**Future**

She is still thinking of Dickon’s awkward thumbs-up and his sheepish _go for it_ four hours later, as she sits at the end of the bar and waits for The Wall to clear of its customers.

The other bartender, Pyp, who brought her and Dickon their drinks, is chatting gamely with her as Jon works with laser-focus, ignoring her all night as she sits there. She can wait—she’s waited five months, after all—and she knows that this bar is everything to him, so of course it must come first.

“…And anyway, that’s the story of how I lost my right toenail,” Pyp finishes proudly. “Jon, are you ever going to swoop in here and save this cute redhead from me?” He winks at Sansa. “Swooping in is sort of Jon’s thing.”

“I know; I know him pretty well,” Sansa reassures him, just loud enough for Jon to hear. He is bullishly cleaning glasses, a towel over his shoulder. He looks at her then, an almost sly look, and her skin prickles with gooseflesh.

“You can go home, Pyp,” Jon says, looking back at the sink. Pyp looks between them, then shrugs. With a cheeky remark and a snap of his towel at Jon, Pyp is gone, and The Wall is empty, save for the two of them.

A drowsy woman’s voice warbles over the stereo, echoing off the high ceilings, and in the dim light, the lit-up bar—hundreds of bottles absinthe-green and cobalt-blue and bright glass—paint Jon in stained-glass colors as he works. His body fascinates her, the way the lean muscle shifts beneath his plaid shirt, the way his hair curls at the nape of his neck. “Did you need a ride home?” he asks at last, still not looking at her.

All of her good-girl instincts tell her to either politely decline, or to say yes, thank you. Sansa swallows.

“I don’t want to go home,” she admits.

Jon pauses, not looking at her at first, then slowly swivels his gaze to her. He’s at the other end of the bar now. They regard each other warily. Five months of Fridays and she’s learned a lot about him: that he has strong feelings about the way the world ought to be (just like her), that he doesn’t always say how he feels (just like her), that anything less than exactly what he wants is bullshit (just like her). She has learned that he works for what he wants (just like her), that he doesn’t overstep boundaries unless he feels someone else is in danger (just like her).

She’s also learned that he’s a little bit of a brat—just like her.

This, she knows, is their moment of mutual apologies. Their groveling. Their sorries, their _I-forgive-you_ s. This moment of posturing, this moment of silence. This is their moment of _yes—I-know-I’ve-been-a-brat._ He studies her carefully, taking the measure of her, seeing through her games and her silliness, and something makes him set his towel down and turn to face her.

“Then,” he says quietly, “do you want to come home with me?”

* * *

She wakes up in sheets that smell clean, with a tattooed arm slung around her waist and sunshine streaming in through the windows. The window is open, and Sansa can hear the early-morning traffic coming in. Last night comes back in flashes: how he didn’t kiss her until they got in the door of his apartment; how he pressed her against the wall and she could feel the wainscoting digging into the small of her back, his hand on the back of her neck, fingers in her hair; the silent back-and-forth as they told each other what they wanted with a look, a touch. How he breathed in her ear, _thought you never met anyone you were attracted to anymore,_ and she breathed back, _so I lied a tiny bit,_ and he bit her neck and said, _don’t lie to me._

(She also remembers glimpsing the bottle-opener she gave him on his kitchen counter, pride of place, and she remembers thinking how much they both have hidden.)

She feels Jon stir behind her before pulling her closer against him possessively, his skin warm, hands calloused against her bare skin. She traces the shapes of his tattoos.

“You’ll have to tell me what all of these mean,” she says, her voice a little rough with sleep still, and she feels Jon laugh slightly, a soft breath against her shoulder.

“If you’re good,” he says, a roguish reference to something from last night, and she flushes with pleasure and, maybe, a little embarrassment.

“I’m always good,” she protests, biting back a grin when he pulls her even tighter against him, burying his face in her neck and hair, pressing her slightly into the mattress.

She hears her mobile pulse once, somewhere on the floor in her jeans. Her texts are a double-pulse and her emails are silent; it’s probably Bumble, or Tinder, or Hinge. This time she can’t bite back her grin. “I think that was one of my dating apps.”

“Too bad you can’t get out of bed to see,” Jon remarks, and he rolls her over onto her back, and she very quickly forgets about her mobile, about dating apps, about work—he makes her forget pretty much everything except for his name, which she repeats, over and over again, all morning.


End file.
